


A Week at a Handsome Townhouse

by daymarket



Series: In the Matters of the Bazaar [2]
Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Cat Raven, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Erik has Feelings, Fallen London, Gen, M/M, Neath Logic is Best Logic, The Devil is a Sneaky Bastard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 13:59:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1651139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daymarket/pseuds/daymarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Erik bargains with a cat, adopts a profession, meets a devil, and tries to navigate the labyrinth of the Neath. Matters are complicated somewhat by his enigmatic host, one damnably cheerful Professor of Xenogamous Sciscitation, who seems just a little bit too trusting to be real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Week at a Handsome Townhouse

**Author's Note:**

> The summary will be augmented a bit once part two goes up, but for now, here's Monday through Thursday!

_Monday_

Among other things:

\- he chases the submarine owned by his childhood torturer

\- almost drowns in the pursuit of said childhood torturer

\- arrives on the shores of a lost city, coughs up a gallon of dirty water, and promptly faints

\- is revived (barely), greets a talking cat, and eats a stew of dubious origin

\- and last but not least, has his lifelong ambition of murdering aforementioned childhood torturer mistaken for a gentlemanly sport.

Cheerful, that. That’s enough to disorient even the steadiest of men, and while Erik may have done any number of terrible things in his pursuit of vengeance, he’s honest enough to admit that _steadiness_ isn’t an adjective that would leap to mind when it comes to describing him.

Overall, that’s enough to be going about with one day, really.

* * *

_T_ _uesday_

He broaches the subject in more detail with Charles on the second night (he assumes it’s night; it’s perpetually dark down here). He doesn’t trust Charles, but his instincts tell him that he may have no other choice. This city—this mad, destroyed city—is written in another language, and Charles is his best hope of deciphering its mysteries. At any rate, he keeps it short and succinct: this is the man. This is the name. Can you help me find him?

“Sebastian Shaw,” Charles says, sounding thoughtful. He leans back in his armchair, and for a moment, Erik has a terrible hope that maybe it really is just that easy. “I’m afraid that doesn’t sound familiar to me,” Charles continues, and Erik grits his teeth. Of course it isn’t, it never is. “To be honest, though,” Charles says, “a name won’t get you very far these days in London. They went out of fashion a while back.”

Erik carefully controls his disbelief. “What do you mean?” he asks. “You have a name, don’t you?”

“Well, yes,” Charles says. He straightens up and leans forward. “I thought you might be more used to that; I hear that people from the Surface have strange habits. But mostly I’m known as the Professor of Xenogamous Sciscitation at Benthic College.” He beams. “It works better, see? I’m the only one there is, whereas more than one person can have the same name. It helps eliminate confusion for everyone involved.”

Mentally, Erik files this under “things that make sense in the way that nothing in this city makes sense” (a folder that’s growing alarmingly large with every hour that he spends here). “Fine,” he says instead of protesting the point. “So giving you Shaw’s aliases aren’t going to work.”

Charles shakes his head. “Not all hope is lost, my friend. I do have a friend in the Foreign Office,” he says. “I can pass the name to her, and they might be able to find some record connecting him to his true identity.” He rubs his chin, looking thoughtful. “Do you have any other information about this Shaw? The more we know, the better we can narrow it down.”

Erik knows many things about Shaw. His penchant for genial evil. The way that he took Erik’s life apart and smiled as Erik was unravelled piece by piece. The specifics of that particular tale, though, feel far too personal to give out even to Charles’ sympathetic gaze. “I can give you a physical description,” Erik says after a moment.

“That would help,” Charles agrees. He’s silent for a moment. “Forgive me for intruding, but—when you were drowning, your thoughts were singularly focused on this Shaw fellow. Why?”

Erik narrows his eyes at him. “How do you know that?” he asks. The memories of his near-drowning are blurry and filtered through a veil of rage and oxygen deprivation. Erik barely remembers them, so how could Charles possibly know? “Were you in my head or something?”

Charles steeples his fingers. “I wouldn’t put it quite that way,” he says, sounding wry. “It can get a bit literal here in the Neath. But in short, I was walking various dreams, and I happened to find yours. You have a very interesting mind, Erik.”

 _Interesting_ , that’s a word that Erik’s heard in far too many terrible contexts. Strangely enough, though, Charles manages to make it sound almost like a compliment. Erik turns Charles’ words over and over in his head, comparing them to his distorted memories. He’d been drowning. He’d been so angry, filled with impotent rage at losing to Shaw. And then he’d been grabbed, and then somehow, he’d known to kick, to propel himself those last important few inches to the surface. How…

“You were the voice,” Erik says slowly as the pieces slot together. “When I was drowning. You were inside my head.” The thought is like a splash of cold water, and Erik feels immensely stupid for not realizing it before. “How did you—” he says, and then breaks off abruptly, eyeing Charles with renewed wariness. This city. This damned, lunatic city.

“Honey,” Charles says, sounding entirely too cheerful. Erik continues to stare, his mind drawing a blank. “I haven’t decided what to name my new variation yet, but this particular cross-breed is _spectacular_. That’s my specialty, see, cross-breeds of honey and varieties that we can produce from different flowers and the singular effects they have.” He beams. “Cross-pollination! It’s truly fascinating, how the traits are passed down through the generations—”

“What does that have to do with you being _in my head_?” Erik demands.

Charles pauses, and Erik feels a pang of irrational guilt at the expression that flickers quickly across Charles’ face. “Well,” Charles says finally. “The most common honey is called prisoner’s honey, and that allows you to share dreams. Other types of honey have different effects, but the basic principle is the same.” He shrugs. “I was trying out a new variant when I stumbled across your mind. I realized you were drowning, and so I dispatched the Curious Drownie to come and save you and tried to give you a few instructions on how to proceed. Once I woke up, I paid some urchins to bring you to my house and waited for you to wake up. And here we are.”

…oh.

Well. Put that way, Erik is being just the tiniest bit ungrateful, isn’t he. He feels almost guilty about it, which is a strange sensation to say the least. “I suppose I should thank you,” he says finally.

“Don’t strain yourself,” Charles says, sounding amused.

“No,” Erik says, shaking his head. “I owe you. Thank you.”

The words come out a bit rusty, but Charles seems to understand the sincerity behind them. He nods. “Well,” he says after a moment, “either way, you’re now in London. But what precisely were you doing before you arrived?”

Erik hesitates, but he finally acquiesces with a nod. “Chasing Shaw’s submarine,” he says. “I tried to take him out him on his boat, actually, but Frost stopped me long enough for them to escape.” He scowls at the memory of that particularly humiliating fight: Frost’s strength had taken him utterly by surprise; the woman is far stronger than she looks. “I’m going to destroy her, too.”

Silence descends. Charles is watching the fire, and Erik watches Charles’ face. He’s not sure what to expect from Charles—panic? Disgust? Amusement? Curiosity? None of them are pleasant options. Erik waits, tense.

“You say you were chasing Shaw’s submarine,” Charles says finally, pronouncing the last word oddly. Erik nods again, wondering where Charles is going with this. “That actually narrows it down considerably. All ships must be registered with the Masters, so they’ll probably have the records at the Naval Authority’s office in Wolfstack Docks. And subs—” and there’s that strange pronunciation again—“are rare enough that you should have a short list of names to work through.”

It’s a lead. It’s not much, but it’s a lead, and something inside Erik relaxes at that realization. He’s on the hunt again for Shaw, and the burden he’s carried his whole adult life is oddly reassuring even as it weighs him down once more. “I appreciate it,” he says quietly, his shoulders loosening.

“I’m happy to help, my friend,” Charles murmurs. He actually sounds sincere, and it occurs to Erik that Charles is just a _bit_ too welcoming to a stranger who has readily admitted to wanting to kill at least two people. Shouldn’t alarm be the natural response? Even in the madness that’s London, Charles seems to be just a little bit too naïve. Erik studies Charles’ face, searching for any hint of deceit, and as if he can feel the weight of Erik’s scrutiny, Charles looks up from the fire and meets Erik’s gaze. Erik blinks, startled and a little bit alarmed. It’s not innocence or naivete in Charles’ eyes.

“What exactly does this honey of yours do?” Erik asks, his voice coming out hoarse even to his own ears. “What did you find out about me?”

Charles smiles. “Enough,” he says, and a chill runs down Erik’s spine. Charles leans forward, his expression intent. “Honey can be a deeply enlightening experience. Once the strain is yielding consistent results,” he continues, “I’d be happy to share some with you. I think you’d find the experience…insightful.”

Tension hums through Erik’s body. He can’t attack Charles. He needs Charles. He needs his experience and his aid. But Charles seems to know far more than what Erik’s comfortable with, and the rules are shifting too fast for Erik to keep up. It’s a terrifying thought.

Charles stands up. Erik tracks his movements with wary eyes, but Charles doesn’t come closer. “I hope that was of some use to you,” Charles says, his voice soft. “I’ll see you in the morning, Erik,” he says. He puts his hand on the doorknob. “Good night.”

The door clicks quietly shut behind him. Erik stays awake for much, much longer into the false-night, his mind spinning through the possibilities.

* * *

_Wednesday_

Morning, or what passes for morning. He knocks on Charles’ bedroom door in the morning, but he receives no response. Wandering the halls shows that they’re equally empty, and eventually, he makes his way downstairs. At the foot of them, he pauses at the sound of a small, terrified voice. “—work somethin’ out, guv, help me help you—oooooh nooooo—”

The voice cuts off abruptly. Frowning, Erik steps into the living room. There’s no one there—wait, no, there’s Raven, her back arched and tail held high. She swivels to look at him as he enters, and her muzzle is stained with something red. There’s a small black lump held between her front paws, and Erik thinks that he’s astute enough to follow the picture to its natural conclusion. “Your breakfast?” he asks, keeping his voice neutral.

Raven turns back to the lump. “My work,” she says. “I pull my weight around here, you know,” she adds, and it feels vaguely like a hint that Erik should be picking up. He doubts that Charles really has any use for dead rats, but maybe in this insane world, rat corpses are a form of currency or something.

“Where’s Charles?” he asks.

Raven’s tail flicks. “At the university,” she says. “He’s in the middle of his breakthrough or something.” Abandoning the dead rat, she leaps up onto the antique sofa. “So what are you up to?” she asks. “How’s the quest to murder someone going? Charles says you need to find the Wolfstack Docks Authorities. Why?”

“How much did Charles tell you?” Erik demands sharply.

Raven cleans her whiskers, appearing supremely unconcerned. “You’re hardly the first to come here with a chest full of secrets,” she says. She doesn’t sound menacing—more bored than anything else, really—but the words are ominous enough. “Tell you what,” she continues. “I’ll give you a good deal, since it’s only your third day here. Give me a secret, and I’ll give you a clue. Won’t even make you chase me for it.”

She watches him expectantly. Erik grits his teeth. “What kind of clue?” he asks sharply.

“A good one,” Raven says. “I’ll even throw in a dead rat for free.”

Erik studies the small furry lump apprehensively, weighing the bargain in his head. He’s been solitary his entire life, asking for none and keeping none, but down here in the dark, everything he once held dear is being turned onto its head. He’s already trusted Charles to some extent, but frighteningly enough, Charles seems to know more than Erik’s told him. What about Raven? How should she play into all this?

As if she can read his mind, Raven gives a low, throaty purr. “Tick tick tick,” she says. “Soon, you’ll lose the rat, and then there goes the rate as well.”

“What kind of secret?” Erik asks finally, trying to remember what he told Charles yesterday. “I’m here to take out a man named Sebastian Shaw and his associate. He’s got a submarine that I was chasing when I died here. I need to—”

“You already sold those secrets,” Raven says, sounding impatient. “Something new.”

Erik swallows hard. “Fine,” he says through gritted teeth. She wants secrets, let’s see how she handles this. “I’m going to destroy Shaw because when I was a child, he made me watch as he took my mother from me. And then he tortured me for over a decade until I managed to escape, and even killing him won’t be enough to erase what he to me.”

The words escape into the silence, hanging heavy in the air. Erik stares at her defiantly, daring her to comment. Raven’s tail is poised frozen in midair, and despite himself, Erik feels a macabre sense of satisfaction. Finally, _something_ about him has managed to stop these Londoners in their tracks.

“Interesting,” Raven says finally.

Erik exhales a breath he hadn’t know he’d been holding. “That’s it?”

Raven’s tail resumes its slow, methodical flicking. “No,” she says. “Calm down. Here’s your clue: the ship permits you’re looking for are guarded by the Naval Architect. He’s strangely honest, so you won’t be able to bribe him, which means you’re going to either have to show some legal authority. Or, and this is my favored plan of action, you can sneak in and steal it.”

Useful information. Erik files this away in his head. “Thank you,” he says stiffly.

“Never let it be said I’d cheat someone fresh off the Surface,” Raven says. She pauses for a moment, her whiskers twitching. “Hmm. And since your secret was a bit appalling, here’s something else I’ll throw in for free: you won’t be able to get to the Docks without a permit. Fortunately, I know where Charles keeps his.” She hops off the sofa. “Follow me.”

Erik follows her, side-stepping around the small furry lump still on the carpet as she winds her way through the living room and back through the rest of the house. Through a show of flexibility that’s actually quite interesting for someone without hands, she manages to open a drawer and tug out a small square of paper, sending it spinning to the ground. On it, the words _Wolfstack Docks Permit: the Professor of Xenogamous Sciscitation_ are printed in raised gold letters.

He picks it up, running his fingers over the gilded letters. “Won’t they know I’m not Charles?” he asks. “Or a professor, for that matter.”

“They won’t care. Or if they do, just say you changed your face,” Raven says with a shrug. “And even if they ask you about anything about your research, which they won’t, you can just babble about honey a lot and its marvelous effects.”

“Charles knows a lot about honey, doesn’t he,” Erik says casually. He gives her a sidelong glance. “So what is his field of research, exactly?”

Raven bares her fangs at him, and Erik wonders briefly if she’s smiling at him or threatening him. “Nice try,” she says. That’s an expensive secret, that is. Come back when you have something of value to offer.”

Irritation rises within Erik, but he forcibly clamps it down. “All right,” he says, keeping his voice calm. Talking to Raven is rather obtuse, but he’s slowly learning how to handle the conversation. “So what’s it worth to you?”

“What’s it worth to _you_?” Raven returns. He glares at her, and her smile widens. “Travel to the Docks. Case the place out. Adopt a profession. Then we’ll talk.”

* * *

He finds the office, but as Raven said, the man inside is stolidly unswayed by Erik’s demands. (Erik consoles himself by thinking that it’s not because he’s grown less nasty; it’s because this city is simply _too damn strange._ ) As per Raven’s advice, he can either go the legal route or just break in, and the latter is far more to Erik’s taste. Still. It’ll take time and reconnaissance to pull it off.

At least the day’s not a total waste. He manages to snare himself a job working at the docks, and he makes a mental note to check with Charles that he’s getting a fair wage. It feels strange to be working a regular job when he’s hidden in the shadows his whole life, but it’s a good ache in his back at the end of the day, and the city no longer feels quite as alien.

He’s learning. That’s something.

* * *

_Thursday_

His shift is in the early morning. Charles’ door is still closed when he leaves, but when Erik returns in the afternoon, he can hear Charles’ voice coming from the sitting room. He’s speaking with someone male, he can tell that much, but their words are muffled by the door. Erik cautiously edges closer, and he almost trips over Raven, who’s busy lurking just beyond the threshold. “Are you eavesdropping?” he asks, wondering vaguely if he should disapprove or if this is a perfectly normal London practice.

“Shhh,” Raven hisses at him. Her ears are flattened against her head, and her hackles are raised. “Quick. Get some matches from the kitchen and set the door on fire.”

Erik checks this against his mental “London-to-sanity” dictionary and comes up blank. “Why?” he asks instead of moving. “Who’s in there?”

The door swings open, and Erik finds himself staring into glowing red eyes set into a strangely handsome face. Raven lets out a yowl and flees, a vanishing streak into the darkness of the townhouse. “Aren’t you a fine specimen,” the man says, smiling at him. There’s something sinister and oddly familiar about his smile, and Erik dislikes him instantly.

“Erik!” Charles says, and Erik looks past him to see him seated on the sofa, his eyes bright and cheeks flushed. There’s a pot of tea on the table in front of him and two half-full cups. “This is my friend, the Affectionate Devil. Come in, then, take a seat.”

A devil? Erik thinks, his head spinning. A _devil_? He re-examines the man more closely: he has an angular sort of handsomeness to him, but Erik finds any appreciation to be overwhelmed by distaste. How can Charles sit there so casually as if nothing is wrong? Shouldn’t the name “the Affectionate Devil” ring some alarm bells right there?

“Don’t trouble yourself on my account, my dear,” the devil’s saying even as Erik’s mind continues to spin in circles. The devil’s voice is oily and unctuous to Erik’s ears. “Since your schedule does not allow for dinner tonight, perhaps I shall see you Saturday?” the devil asks as he walks back to where Charles is seated and takes his hand. “I yearn to see you more often, my darling,” he continues smoothly. “Your company is absolutely _singular_.”

“I quite enjoy your company as well,” Charles says, sounding just moderately breathless. “But no, I can’t do tonight, I’m afraid, as my research has reached a critical point. But Saturday will be particularly interesting—I’m having the Moonlit Author over to talk about her works of fungal poetry. I’m sure it’ll be splendid for everyone involved.”

“Poetry pales in comparison to your conversation,” the devil murmurs.

Charles laughs lightly. “You flatter me.”

“Never,” the devil says. “Being in your company never fails to brighten up my day.” He presses his lips to Charles’ hand, and Erik’s dislike of him coalesces into hatred, sharp enough that even Erik is somewhat startled by its sudden vehemence. “Until Saturday, then.”

He picks up his hat and places it on his head. Erik shifts aside just the slightest inch to let him leave, and he thinks he can smell a very faint whiff of sulfur as the devil passes by. On the sofa, Charles sags back into the antique leather, his cheeks still flushed. His lips are very red.

“Mmm,” Charles says. His voice startles Erik out of his reverie. “Not that I don’t enjoy his visits, but I always feel so exhausted after he leaves,” he says.

Erik’s mind immediately fills in all the reasons as to why that would be so. “Friend of yours?” he asks tersely.

Charles rubs a hand across his eyes. “A good acquaintance.” He lowers his hand and looks at Erik, and there’s something oddly like fondness in his expression. Erik’s a bit taken aback by it. “So, my friend,” Charles says. “How have you been?”

“Busy,” Erik says shortly. He jabs a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the departing devil, refusing to let the matter drop. “You meet with devils often?” he says, and he tries to keep his voice neutral, he really does. For all he knows, Londoners regularly consort with devils…but that wouldn’t explain Raven’s reaction, would it? “Raven doesn’t seem to like him much.”

Charles rubs his nose. “Devils are rather polarizing, I think,” he says. “But rest assured, Erik, that the Affectionate Devil has never been anything but gallant.”

“And affectionate?” Erik says pointedly.

“Naturally,” Charles says, looking rueful. “He wanted to go out to dinner tonight, but I’m afraid that I do have work to do.” He pats the place on the sofa next to him. “But enough about me. I’m terribly sorry—I know I wasn’t around at all yesterday. How have you been? Has the city been treating you well? Would you like some tea?”

The topic change doesn’t escape Erik. He scowls at Charles, but the man looks up at him with such a damnably disarming expression that Erik reluctantly takes the seat. “No tea. Charles, are you sure you’re—” he begins, and then he shakes his head at his own folly. Why should he care if Charles consorts with devils? It’s not like it’s his problem, and maybe every Londoner has a devil in their back pocket ( _but that doesn’t explain Raven’s reaction, isn’t something a little wrong here_ )—

“I’m fine,” he says instead. “I found my way to the docks.”

“Mm,” Charles hums. “And how is your quest for Shaw?”

“Still looking for him,” Erik tells him. The memory of the Naval Architect’s surly face floats up, and Erik suppresses a sigh. He won’t whine about his progress, though, or lack thereof. “I’m working on it,” is what he says at last.

Charles looks at him with those bright, sympathetic eyes. “Of course. Well, if you need help, you only have to ask,” he says. It’s a vivid reminder of just how Charles seems to know far too much about him. “Raven told me she gave you my dock permit. That’s fine, by the way, but it might be easier for you to apply for your own once you’ve got enough. Just in case anyone asks, although I suppose they mostly don’t care.”

“What else did Raven tell you?” Erik asks warily.

Charles shrugs. “She’s a cat,” he says. “She doesn’t tell me what she doesn’t have to.” He tilts his head and smiles at Erik. “Are you destined to be as enigmatic? There’s a profitable trade in secrets here in the Neath, you know.”

“I’m getting the idea,” Erik says, only faintly sarcastic. Charles laughs softly, and Erik finds that he rather likes the sound (when it’s not directed at a devil, that is). “But no. I’d rather pay my way differently. I got a job,” he adds. “Down at the docks.”

“Ah! Zailing’s a noble pastime,” Charles says with a nod. “Have you found the Unterzee to your liking?”

“Haven’t sailed,” Erik says with a shrug. “Yet.” Have to sent Shaw first, he thinks, before he has time for such pleasantries. He doesn’t say that, of course. “But I did meet your Hearty Zailor this morning. He says hello.”

“Yes, I need to thank him again for those fine rubbery lumps,” Charles says, looking thoughtful. “He’s always done well by me and Raven.”

Erik studies him, his curiosity piqued. “How long have you known him?” he asks.

“Oh, for years upon years,” Charles says, waving a hand airily. “My mother used to take me out on interminable zailing trips, and the Hearty Zailor was what made those trips bearable.” He grins, clearly recalling some old memory. “We had some grand old times together.”

“Raven didn’t go with you?” Erik asks.

“No,” Charles says. He doesn’t elaborate further. “But I’m afraid that as a consequence, I never developed a taste for zailing.”

Erik doesn’t press the subject. That question doesn’t matter, and there are a million other things that he’d rather ask instead: who are you? What is London, exactly? How can this place exist? How long have you been here? How long have you known that devil? Are you sure you know what you’re doing? Who are you, _really_?

Charles watches him with a faint smile. “Questions, my friend?” he asks.

“It seems unfair,” Erik says as neutrally as he can, “that you know so much about me, and I know next to nothing about you.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Charles is quiet for a moment. “Well. Fair’s fair, I suppose. What do you want to know?”

The permission is startling, and Erik finds a dozen questions vying for dominance in his head. He hesitates for a long moment, mentally ranking them by importance and urgency before finally settling on one that seems fairly inoffensive. “How long have you been doing this?”

“Doing what?” Charles asks.

Erik wets his lips. “Finding people,” he says. It’s not quite the right verb to describe what Charles apparently does, and he shakes his head in frustration. “Raven said that I wasn’t the only to, and I quote, ‘come here with a chest full of secrets.’”

“Well, I like people,” Charles says affably. “And this is a big house, as you may have noticed. I host salon gatherings occasionally, and the guests who come can be varied in all sorts of ways.” He pats Erik on the arm. “I’m having one this Saturday, actually! You should join us. It’ll be a good experience for you.”

Erik frowns. “You’re avoiding the question,” he says. “How long have you been doing this? How long have you been here? And why are you helping me?”

Charles blinks at him, apparently confused. “Must I have a reason, Erik?” he says. “Can’t I just help you for helping’s sake?”

“In my experience, people are rarely so charitable,” Erik says. There’s a knot of tension gathering at the base of his spine. He watches the candlelight flicker over Charles’ features: Charles looks very young, but Erik’s getting the sense that in this city appearances mean less than nothing. “You can’t possibly be that hopelessly naïve,” he says.

“Well, I suppose I’m doomed to disappoint you,” Charles says. “Tragedy doesn’t last long in this city.”

“Does anything?” Erik asks sardonically.

“You’re catching on!" Charles says, sounding pleased. "And it all depends on what you’re looking for. You, you’re looking for revenge, fair enough, and I suppose you think that’ll make you happy. What do you plan on doing after, though? You haven’t died yet, so you could make it back to the Surface in one piece—physically, at least.”

Erik can feel the unspoken caveat hanging in the air. “What do you mean—physically, at least? I can never return to the Surface? I can never leave this city?”

“Of course you can. But in what condition and under what circumstances—that’s entirely up to you,” Charles says. “More importantly, I think you’ll find that London changes you.” He pauses. “Have you had any interesting dreams yet, my friend?”

“What do you mean?” Erik questions.

Charles shrugs. “Just asking.”

Erik shifts slightly on the sofa, trying to ease the growing tension. “I know what you’re doing,” he says at last. Charles raises an eyebrow at him, patiently waiting. “You’ve yet to reveal anything about yourself. The conversation’s somehow still all about me.” Unspoken is the question: what are you hiding?

Amusement dances in Charles’ eyes. “I’ve been caught, haven’t I?” he says, which isn’t the reaction that Erik quite expected. “Very well.” He considers for a moment. “I found you through a honey-dream, so I’ll let you do the same to me. Tonight, I’ll distill a honey sample, and tomorrow, we’ll try it together. How does that sound?”

Erik frowns at the invitation. “You know that I’ve still no real idea what honey is or how it works,” he says.

“It’s hard to put into words,” Charles admits. “Much like London itself, I suppose. But suffice to say that there are certain inhibitions that are less, shall we say, prevalent in the dream worlds.”

“Inhibitions like…?”

Charles grins at him mischievously. “All sorts,” he says, and there’s a faint promise simmering under his words. Frustratingly enough, Erik feels heat join the tension curling through him. “But for our purposes, it means that we don’t have to rely on mere words to communicate, which can make matters much easier.”

Erik considers the idea. That sounds like an incredibly awful idea on so many levels. He’s often loathe to share words, let alone minds, and what Charles is describing sounds far more intimate than what Erik is comfortable with. He doesn’t know this place; he doesn’t know this honey; he doesn’t know the rules…

But if Charles already knows all about him, what does Erik have to lose? He’s already gone this far. “Fine,” Erik says.

Charles smiles at him. "Tomorrow, then.”

**Author's Note:**

> For folks who don't play FL: whispered secrets sell for one pence, cryptic clues for two, and appalling secrets for fifteen. Wolfstack Docks permits go for a hell of a lot more than that (about 700 pence worth of materials, I think?) so Erik got a _really_ good deal. Also, dead rats are indeed a form of currency (particularly favored by the Urchins and the Topsy King).
> 
> Bad Latin alert: xenogamy is a real word that means cross-fertilization of plants, while sciscitation is a fudged translation of "investigations" that was helpfully provided by Google and then mangled by yours truly.
> 
> Honey, which Charles keeps going on about, is a rather delectable substance exclusive to the Neath. Prisoner's honey is considered a fine evening's pastime and involves the sharing of pleasant dreams for everyone involved. There are other types of honey, though, including the infamous gaoler's honey, which lets you ransack memories. Charles is also busy developing other kinds. Why? _FOR SCIENCE_


End file.
